obsidian girl
I think there’s something uniquely beautiful and uniquely horrifying or horrific about being a
teenage girl
and I hate the idea that you can separate the two because the beauty comes hand-in-hand with the
whore
because it’s your first love who breaks your heart every time they circle back around
because you are an item or an object not a person
This is not true. You know this. You have read the books. You have listened to the lectures. But
you think it anyway. And you
hate the part of you that believes it. And that age old adage about spite and noses and faces rings
between your ears.
i am
obsidian: girl
angel’s lullaby, demon’s wit: girl
quickly fading, blazing out: girl
new-growth forest: girl
both, neither, never singular: girl
and it’s grins and giggles to hands and lips
and he is closer than ever before
and it’s fingers branding your hipbones and whispers like prayers pressed into your skin and
then,
suddenly, it is
nothing,
nothing at all
and it’s your mother who brought you into the world and you suddenly can’t bear to look at her
because her words
that used to cradle you and her hands
that used to swaddle you in blankets soft as dove feathers and warm as her own breast
now grate against your skin and chafe and
scratch and
peel and
bleed and
your skin is what you’re desired for but you cannot bear to be in it
and all of it is terrible and all of it is breathtaking and all of it is beautiful
and it holds you cradled nested nourished shielded trapped
it holds you like a mother or a lover
though i must confess i wouldn’t know the latter outside the shadows spun in daydreams
and it hurts
and you will never get it back
and you aren’t sure you want to
and you aren’t sure you want to leave it behind.